


Perchance to Dream

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, have some fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: Alright, because I am a massive procrastinator this fic is coming in juuuuuuuuust under the wire, but WE DID IT! This is for the *checks notes* Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan Writing discord's May the Fourth Be With You Challenge, for antheiasilva's prompt "Qui-Gon finding out that Obi-Wan and Anakin are sleeping together [any rating, gen or slash]"I guarantee you, this is only accurate through malicious compliance, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 121
Collections: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan May the Fourth be With You Prompt Meme





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antheiasilva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/gifts), [treescape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/gifts).



_“To die, to sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…”  
  
_\- Hamlet, III.I

* * *

It happens at night.

Not every night - not even most nights - but sometimes, when it’s late, when the sun has cycled down, and the Temple lies in silence, high and distant from the writhing underworld of Coruscant below, sometimes, Anakin disappears.

He’s quiet. At least, as quiet as someone who burns with all the fury of a conflagration in the Force can be. He waits until Qui-Gon is asleep, and then he slips out of bed, slides on his boots, wraps himself in his master’s duster, and tiptoes out the door. 

At first, Qui-Gon had dismissed it as the late night imaginings of a restless mind. Perhaps he had been more tired than he’d thought, following their mission to Kel Dialuna. Perhaps he was only imagining the quiet shuffling in the hall, the quiet rasp of fabric on fabric in movement. Perhaps he’d only dreamt that Anakin had gone, for in the morning, he finds the boy asleep in his bed, his arms thrown wide, and mouth open in the careless abandon of untroubled sleep.

But then, it happens again. And again.

He worries now that the boy is up to some mischief, and he listens closely to the wherefores and whatsits prattled about the Temple the day following, but though there are many rumors bandied about, and though many of them concern his apprentice, none of them hint at any trouble practiced in the dead of night.

Then he thinks that perhaps Anakin sleepwalks, so he sets an alarm to trigger in the event of any midnight ramblings. The boy has been testing boundaries of late, and a few missed curfews are enough to justify the alarm’s presence in any case, but it never is tripped by his late night escapades. It is always carefully dismantled. There is no effort at deception, for he leaves it disarmed and open to Qui-Gon’s inspection in the morning, but to do so is an obviously conscious act.

The master wishes he could anticipate these events, but there seems to be no particular pattern, no particular motivation, or trigger. He meditates on it more than once, unusually disturbed at the thought of his padawan wandering unattended through the halls, alone in the dark of night. He knows he misses his mother. He knows he feels the cold of Coruscant acutely. He knows he struggles with jealous initiates, and lags in his studies, but he’d thought they’d addressed these issues together with openness and grace. He worries that there’s something he’s missed.

They’ve been Temple bound for three weeks after a close shave on Corellia’s moon had seen him laid up in the Halls of Healing for a few days. Anakin, thank the Force, had come through unscathed, and had used the opportunity to catch up with his few friends at the Temple. He’d regaled his master with all sorts of stories about swimming in the Room of a Thousand Fountains on a dare (“You should have seen the look on that _sleemo_ Ja’Tzi’s face, master!”), how he’d started and abandoned a Temple newsletter (“Master Nu said that flimsi was too expensive to waste, even in the Core, and that besides, there’s already one you can download to your personal pad. Can I show you?”), and how some friends had managed to convince a few Senior Padawans into attending a fake sparring competition only to find themselves ambushed by their Junior counterparts (“That was the best day ever, master! Do you know that Padawan Loush can do a reverse grip _Ataru_ swooping-mynok attack? It was totally wizard!”). With Anakin, Qui-Gon finds there is no shortage of joy to experience, no poverty of delight to share, and certainly no lack of correction to impart, but he has never made a secret of his adventures. Yet still...he wanders.

Then, one night, Qui-Gon gets lucky.

He’s stayed up late, meditating deep into the night, unable to sleep for the discomfort of a few wounds still left to heal completely, but absolutely determined not to return to the Halls in admission of that fact. It’s well past midnight - hours past - when he hears the front door hiss open and shut, whispering secrets of his padawan’s escape.

He slips on his boots, and grabs a spare robe from his closet to cover his sleep clothes, feeling exposed by the intimacy of private dress. The Temple is empty and hollow like the belly of some great beast, the pillars arcing up like ribs, the Force beating out a steady pulse in the dark. He follows the boy from their quarters down three levels, and across the wide courtyard in front of the main commissary only realising where he is when the boy stops in before a plain, white door, indistinguishable from all the doors beside it, and lining the wall opposite. But it is unique to Anakin. He raises a palm to the pad, and the door slides open to admit him.

For a breath, a heartbeat, Qui-Gon hesitates, wondering if he should go back to his own quarters and leave the confrontation to the morning, but something beckons him forward. His curiosity, or his heart, he cannot tell, but he finds himself before the same door seconds later, raising his own hand to the pad. There is nothing to suggest that he shall be granted the same privilege of egress that his padawan has, but he wonders. He wonders enough that he makes the attempt, and feels the bitter sting of regret when the door slides open, as keenly as he would have if it hadn’t.

Inside, the rooms are dark and still. Nothing moves, and Qui-Gon waits for his eyes to adjust, taking in each item as it materialises from the dark. There is a low couch, and a small table; a countertop and hotplate on which to prepare food, a soft pillow upon which to meditate, a chair to entertain a guest, a little succulent plant. These things exist in nearly every dormitory of the Temple, and there is little to evidence the particular tenant of this room, but Qui-Gon smiles in fond recognition anyway. The table is aligned so precisely with the couch, the burner recently scrubbed, the chair draped in the folds of a discarded cloak, and it is so very familiar, and not at all like Anakin.

He marvels at the thought of his padawan existing peacefully amidst so much carefully constructed order, but the remains of a small circuit board lies abandoned on the table, revealing not only his current presence, but also suggesting repeated visitations here.

The master is pulled out of his musings by a flurry of whispers emanating from behind the door leading to a modest bedroom. He knows this because he remembers being a Knight. He remembers endless missions, and brief respites at the Temple, he remembers being alone in cramped quarters, and learning to cook for only himself. He remembers that, late at night, he sometimes missed his old room, and the detritus and conflict of cohabitation, and sometimes he missed his master.

Anakin’s protesting voice rises up, breaking into sound before being coaxed back into silence by the gentle susurration of another.

“Hush, it’s alright,” he hears. “You ought to tell your master, but it doesn’t have to be tonight. Come here.”

“I forgot to bring my blanket,” the contrite voice of his padawan murmurs.

“We can share.”

“Do you think he’ll be mad? If he finds out?”

There’s a brief pause before the other voice sighs, sheets rustling as bodies adjust their positions, accommodating one another.

“No,” comes the promise. “Not at you.”

“At you?”

“No.”

“If he is, I’ll just set the med-droid on him that Master Che blew up last week.”

“Master Che blew up a med-droid?”

“Well...sort of. Well, it was mostly me. I was trying to -”

“Tell me in the morning. For now, sleep. It’s late.”

“Okay,” says Anakin. “Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?”

  
  
“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“Can you hold me? Just til I go to sleep?”

“Of course.”

“And can you stay until I wake up?”

“Always, Anakin. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

Qui-Gon waits until he hears the movement within cease, and breaths even out into long, regular measures. He thinks then, of all the restless nights, and wonders at the fear in Anakin that he’d so clearly missed. How was it that he had been so blind? How was it that Anakin had been so eager to avoid him? And how was it that he had ended up here? 

His curiosity having drawn him so far, he finds he cannot leave without bearing witness to what he has overheard. He slides the door open slowly, so slowly that it makes no sound and not even the Force is roused by his presence. Nor are the two dreamers lying beyond.

Anakin sleeps with all his typical abandon, deeply and enthusiastically unconscious, cradled in the arms of Qui-Gon’s prodigal heart. Obi-Wan is both slighter and larger than Qui-Gon remembers him, having spent many nights overseeing his own slumber as a child. But he’d forgotten how he looked as a man, the Knight living in his memory ever as a boy. He sees now the smattering of growth upon his jaw, the hair curling into a length never permitted as a padawan. He sees compassion in the circle of his arms, and strength in the vulnerability of repose. He looks upon these two children, both beloved of the Force, and for a moment, an eternity, is content.

But then he thinks of how much he has missed.

Obi-Wan has been absent for much of the time since Naboo. Both from the Temple, and Qui-Gon’s life. At first, he’d put it down to the demands of Knighthood, and the excitement of an open galaxy unchaperoned by tedious old masters. But now, he thinks it might have been intentional. He has obviously found time for Anakin in his life, but has spared none for Qui-Gon, and the master wonders who is to blame for this.

He knows it is only himself.

He has read the mission reports, heard directly from the Council of his previous padawan’s exploits. He has passed by the Halls of Healing on more than one occasion, following a mission’s disastrous outcome, and stood by in the salles to watch his apprentice journey from _capable_ to _exceptional._

His sorrow and regret must snag on some jagged edge of the Force like a hangnail, because before he can steal away with only the tender image of this night impressed upon his mind, his gaze is met with the bleary one of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Master…?” he rasps, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Qui-Gon sighs, and pushes himself away from the doorframe.

“I’ll make some tea,” he replies. 

He finds leaves in the same cupboards as he stores them in his own residence; the kettle tucked on the same shelf; cups, and pot are stored beside the sink, just as he keeps his own. Obi-Wan’s apartment is easy to navigate.

By the time he is pouring the water over the tea, and setting it down on the table to steep, he is joined by a flurry of overlarge robes, and a young knight eager to accept his rightful censure.

“I am sorry, Master Jinn,” he says. “I realise I ought to have comm’d you, or taken the time to inform you of your padawan’s whereabouts in person, and it is completely unacceptable for me to have neglected this, but -”

“Anakin asked you not to tell, didn’t he?” The master’s tone is rueful and knowing. He casts a smirk at the knight, flummoxed at being so easily found out, but unwilling to accede so easily.

“No, he - I mean, yes, but it was my responsibility to -”

“I am not angry, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon murmurs, and his heart aches to have to reassure Obi-Wan of this. He tries to twist a spark of humor into the exchange to protect his old padawan from the cutting edge of truth - the truth that he _is_ hurt by the omission, that he _does_ think Anakin has overstepped, that he _misses_ the man in front of him. So he says instead: “Anakin is a very persuasive child.”

“You mean he’s annoying,” the knight grumbles.

“As I always say, my young padawan,” Qui-Gon intones with the wisdom of experience, as he sips tea from his cup. “Your focus determines your reality.”

“And so you have determined to praise his failings into virtues,” Obi-Wan prods.

“It is my greatest fault that I see only potential in even the most pathetic of lifeforms,” he replies.

“Of course, master,” Obi-Wan agrees, not noticing his slip, nor commenting on Qui-Gon’s own. “I am intimately familiar with that particular trait of yours.”

“And you see how wonderfully you have turned out,” he says, unashamed of the pride in his open study of the Jedi before him.

Obi-Wan ducks his head to drink from his tea, long hair drifting across his brow, concealing his eyes.

“Yes, Master Jinn,” he says, though Qui-Gon is sure he doesn’t believe it.

“Perhaps ‘Qui-Gon’ is appropriate now,” he suggests.

Obi-Wan’s jaw clenches, the knot of muscle leaping in his cheek as he chews on the possibility of such familiar address. He spares Obi-Wan the mortification of a reply, by setting his cup down, and leaning close across the table.

“Now,” he says. “It seems you are more a stranger to me than my wayward apprentice. How can this be?”

The knight licks the stain of tea from his lips, and replaces his own vessel onto the table beside Qui-Gon’s. He keeps his eyes lowered, attending to his task with care and giving himself a moment to collect himself before he addresses the master with all the eloquence of a diplomat caught between warring factions.

“It was not intentional,” he says. “And it was never meant to continue for so long, but I...After Naboo, we developed a bond - of sorts -” he says, quick to dispel the possibility that he might at all be infringing on Qui-Gon’s territory. “Nothing...substantial, but enough that when the distress is obvious enough, we can feel each other, and he came to me one night.”

“Whose distress?” Qui-Gon presses, no stranger to Obi-Wan’s tactical evasions.

His suspicions are proved correct when the knight blinks, and his voice stammers to a halt.

“Ah,” hums Qui-Gon, as another regret is added to his tally.

“It was a difficult time for everyone,” Obi-Wan rushes to assuage him. “And in any case, it was only a small thing, but he...he has dreams, too, and he thought - he felt that it would be silly to bother you with such trivial things, and that I might...after the first time, he thought that I might have some...insight.”

“And do you?”

Obi-Wan hesitates, but he is no padawan anymore, subject to the judgement of his master. He is confident, and capable, and in this he knows something Qui-Gon doesn’t.

“Sometimes,” he says. A silence falls between them, each contemplating this shift in power, this elevation of rank from student to peer, from child to friend, and wondering if for all there is to be gained, is there not something, too, that has been irrevocably lost?

Obi-Wan accepts this revelation first, and speaks again.

“He has nightmares,” he says. “About his mother dying. And that is something I _do_ understand.”

Qui-Gon shifts in his chair, exhaling tension from his lungs, the depth of his breathing giving confirmation to his continued existence in defiance of fate and quite possibly the will of the Force. He is alive. Anakin is alive. Obi-Wan is alive. They are all here, together, in this room, in this moment, despite everything which has conspired against them. Despite injury, and illness, and misunderstanding, and regret, and words hastily spoken and apologies poorly offered. Despite fear, and anger, and hate, and all the malevolent violence the Dark Side has to offer. They are here.

He reaches across the table to grasp Obi-Wan’s hand in his own, holding tight, and weaving their fingers together.

“It is late,” he says. “And you are only just returned from a difficult journey. Come. Let me see you to bed, my very young apprentice.”

“I have missed you, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan replies, as he’s willingly ushered from his chair, and guided back into his own room.

“And I you.”

Qui-Gon guides his wilting charge back to the low sleep-couch, helping to shift Anakin over to make space, and following Obi-Wan down to lie beside them both.

“Will you stay until I’m asleep, master?” Obi-Wan whispers in the dark.

“Of course,” Qui-Gon replies.

“And will you be here when I wake?”

The Jedi master sighs, and runs his hand over a youthful brow, closing blue eyes to rest.

“Always,” he says, and together, they slip into dreaming.


End file.
